


hushabye

by gabriphales



Series: gomens drabble hell [82]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Nightmares, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:07:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26099911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabriphales/pseuds/gabriphales
Summary: aziraphale doesn't like sleeping for very particular reasons
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: gomens drabble hell [82]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1664713
Comments: 1
Kudos: 36





	hushabye

he doesn't mean to flinch.

really, crowley has a point to all his rambling. the alcohol-infused, passion-struck ravings of a man who's been pushed too far, strung taut for too long. and he isn't being forceful - no, _no,_ he's polite, just making his wants known. it's aziraphale's fault for dragging him along in the first place. it's aziraphale's fault for tempting, teasing, yet refusing to deliver.

it's aziraphale's fault. nobody else is here to blame.

"you've got to make up your mind, angel. i mean, i thought after armageddon, things would be different! we have dinner together nearly every night, i've taken you wherever you want to go, and you _still_ won't admit it." crowley barks out, rising from the chaise, and pacing about the room in a way that shouldn't have made aziraphale feel so uneasy. _like prey,_ his mind betrays him. _i'm being circled like prey._

still, he decides to play the ignorant party, just as he always has. "i haven't the slightest idea what you mean." 

he can't look crowley in the eye, but the demon has stopped now, and he's being stared at, stared into. like the yellow glare of sunlight reflected in glass windows, those serpentine pupils sting to meet. aziraphale keeps his gaze on the floor.

"really? not the _slightest_ idea?" crowley says, stepping in closer. inch by inch, with the solid click of his shoes pounding in tune to aziraphale's pulse. he leans over aziraphale, an arm against his chair, elbow digging into fabric in a way that looked almost painful. aziraphale holds his breath - 

"because i think you know a lot more than you're letting on."

and his exhale is hot when he releases a gasp, mouth quivering. his eyes well with heat, the humid, boiling kettle sort of warmth that comes around only when he _least_ wants to cry. he has to keep himself together. he has to be brave, for crowley's sake.

(what's there to be afraid of, anyways?)

"i think you're toying with me, leading me on, only to let me down gently." crowley's volume drops, sinking like stones lost to the ocean. "over and over again, trying to see how long it'll take me to _snap._ "

aziraphale hears a crack in those words, the breaking twig in an empty forest, he muddles over the sound, and percolates in fear. nausea tugs in a knot all the way from the back of his throat, down to his clenching stomach. he shuffles in his seat, desperately seeking out non-existent shelter. hoping for a way to hide away from this all, just as he always does.

"i'm sorry," he says, watching as crowley's pupils shrink to thin, vicious slits. just as a snake does before striking. just as a shark rolls back their eyes when they take the first bite.

"sorry?" crowley spits, venom stinging on his tongue. "sorry's not good enough, angel."

his palm smoothes to the flat surface of aziraphale's thigh, and he grips, he _squeezes._ aziraphale feels cold all over, hypothermic in mid-july.

"i can't," he says, his voice already too faint to be of much use. he knows there's nothing he can do to get out of this. "i'm not ready, please."

"you're ready when i say you are."

crowley doesn't sound the same, not like his usual self. there's a curving sickness to the tone, like leaning over the edge of a bathtub, and just stewing in anticipation, waiting for the the usurped stomach that will, inevitably, follow. his hand climbs aziraphale's leg, all the way to his center. his fingers are too hard where he digs them in, his grasp too strong as he gropes.

"let me go," aziraphale whispers. "please, _please_ stop. i'll do whatever you want when i'm ready, just - "

crowley's thumb and forefinger make excellent use of aziraphale's jaw, holding him still and silent with nothing but a single, threatening clutch. there's nothing left of language to form clear sentences in aziraphale's brain, much less speak them aloud. all he can do is sit there and take it. all he can do is be helpless, naive, a _wasted, filthy, worthless little fucktoy_ -

the sheets are stuck to his clammy skin. his quilts have fallen limply off the side of the bed, and his whole body feels weak. _ill,_ in a melodramatic, silly way, he muses.

rubbing his cloudy eyes clear, and sitting up with a dash of miracled candlelight, he tucks himself in for another five hours of solitude reading.

(just a dream, anyways. nothing worth dwelling on.)

**Author's Note:**

> i have jaws by lemon demon stuck in my head as i type this


End file.
